


Call Me

by DarthFucamus



Series: Headlock [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Biting, Choking, F/M, Femdom, Hate Sex, Leashes, POV Female Character, Punching, Strangulation, Violent Sex, athletic reader, dominant female reader, kicking, lucas baker is a criminal, unhealthy emotional outlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 03:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: In a rare show of mercy, Lucas Baker let one of his captives free, but freedom came with its costs.Half a year later, she’s ready to confront her demons. And maybe beat the shit out of them.





	Call Me

**Author's Note:**

> I got a couple of requests to write a followup to Headlock (including one from commenter DannyPhantom619) so, of course I got carried away with it.  
> I was also inspired by the new RE7 DLC trailer and decided to try a slightly different flavor of Lucas for this one.

You stare at the contact in your phone for the third time this week. The name is simply NOPE in all caps.

You aren’t crazy, you’re just… angry.

You’ve been practicing. Kickboxing, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, krav maga, as many classes as you can fit in. Jill, your best friend since college, trains with you, fully aware of your reasons. She’s the only one who is, and the only one who would have your back in this.

You aren’t losing yourself to strength and agility training because you are traumatized like most people would probably assume. You are doing it because you are _pissed._

You told her what you told the cops, you weren’t raped or anything like that, you’d just been another dumb rat caught in a trap to him. The minute there was risk of something more, he dumped you on the side of the road like a sack full of car trash. And the thought that he got close enough to you when you were out cold to slip his number into your bra is unnerving on a whole new level.

NOPE taunts you from the screen.

That scrawny asshole got the best of you three times in the two days you were there. The first time hadn’t been preventable, really. Your car broke down on the highway, his car pulled up, next thing you knew you were smelling chloroform. The second time he tried to force-feed you that offal. You managed to avoid eating it, but you still lost that fight and got thrown into a dog cage. And the third time… he tried to get some entertainment out of you in his puzzle room. You’d come so fucking close that time…

You hit dial. It rings twice before the other side picks up.

“ _I got the shit. You ready to wire the funds?_ ” The voice on the other line is thick, and too close to the receiver because you can hear his mouth moving as he eats something.

“What?” you ask, all the words you were planning on saying forgotten in the moment. There’s a soft inhalation, and then a cough.

_“Who’s this?”_

You don’t answer, but you’re about to end the call.

 _“Ah shit, thought you were sum-one else. You’re that strong girl, ain’tcha…_ ”

It’s been six months, and he remembers you. You’re a little surprised.

“Well. I’m calling you,” you say tersely. He chuckles on the other end and continues chewing. The amplified sound of it sets your teeth on edge.

_“You consider my offer?”_

“Yeah,” you answer, gaining confidence as you imagine what it would be like to grab that wet, noisy tongue out of his mouth and pull with all your strength. “How do we do this?”

He makes a soft growling sound that curdles in your lower belly.

_“Meet me at that shitty motel offa 90 after sundown. I don’t need ta tell ya to come alone, do I?”_

A disgusted tremor curls in your gut when he mentions the seedy motel. This motherfucker really thinks he’s going to get his dick wet.

“Sounds great,” you say with a malicious smile. There’s a moment of silence when you think he’s going to say something else. Instead, he hangs up.

You call Jill to cancel your evening run.

 _“Are you pussing out on me?”_ she demands.

“You remember that thing I’ve been holding onto?” you ask, examining your short, neat nails. There’s a moment of silence on the other end.

“ _You did not._ ”

“I did,” you say, followed by more silence.

“ _You sure?”_

“I’m fucking sure.”

 _“You can back out._ ”

“No, I can’t.”

Jill sighs and you know you’ve won.

_“Give me the address. Call me if you need anything. In fact, just fucking call me. If you don’t, I’m coming to get you.”_

You smile, feeling jittery, and tell her where you’re meeting him. There’s a reason Jill’s your best friend. She has your back even if that means letting you do stupid shit, like get revenge on the man who kidnapped you and held you captive for two days.

You won’t be exhausted and half-starved this time, though.

In the afternoon, you meditate over Bruce Lee films and a 6 oz ribeye, medium rare.

You choose clothes that look believably sexy on your figure: a mid-thigh hip-hugging skirt, a halter top, ankle boots with spiked heels. But there’s a snug athletic bra under the top and the shoes come off easily so they can be tossed aside. You can get some real shit done with your bare feet. You’ve already put your support wraps on.

You aren’t a supermodel, but as far as you’re concerned you’re miles out of that hillbilly’s league.

You drive to the motel, your mind on your goals. When you pull into the parking lot, the vibration of a text message jolts you.

‘118.’

He must be watching you from the room. You are fully expecting this to be a trap. So when you park in front of 118, you prepare yourself.

You can see lights on through the curtains.

You press your ear to the door, but you hear nothing.

You crack your knuckles, pop your neck, and turn the handle. The door’s unlocked, and it opens into the typical highway motel fare: shabby, outdated, but clean.

You peer farther in, scanning the edges, ready for him to jump out at you from behind the door or a corner. The room is empty of all but the requisite cheap motel furniture. A queen-sized bed is against the wall opposite the door, next to a nightstand that you know has a bible in the top drawer, and a bathroom on the wall to the left of the bed. A table with a softly glowing lamp and a chair is positioned by the front door. An empty ice bucket sits next to the TV remote on the table.

Your heart is pounding, adrenaline shooting through your system, as you walk into what is most definitely a trap.

You hear footsteps behind you and turn to see Lucas Baker in the doorway with his hood up, face shadowed, mouth stretched wide. Your pulse spikes.

“Well ain’t you a pretty sight…” he says with a greasy smile, and then looking behind his shoulder. “Gotta tell ya, I din’t think ya’d show. Sorry to keep you waitin’, had to be sure it was only you and not the cops.”

Smart, you think bitterly. It didn’t even occur to you that he might not be in the room.

“No. No cops,” you say, backing toward the bed. You try to keep the tense set of your shoulders relaxed, your posture straight. You’re totally, completely calm. On the outside.

When he comes in, he lightly kicks the door shut behind him. He’s eyeballing your clothes with no regards to subtlety or decorum, and you’re as pleased that he responded that way as you are disgusted.

His mouth quirks in a brief smirk before it melts back into an unhinged sort of sag. He's looking at your legs again. You wonder if he’s threatened by the muscle or into it.

“Finally decided to go slummin’, huh princess?” he asks, licking his slack bottom lip with his whole tongue before bringing his eyes slowly up your body.

When his brazen eyes get back to your face, they narrow. He gives you a humorless smile.

“Or... are ya wearin’ a wire?” Paranoid fuck, you think.

“Why don't you come see for yourself?” you ask, turning what little wiles you possess to max power. You shift your weight to make your hip stick out and show your figure to better effect.

He notices, but doesn't take the bait immediately. He steps back to peer through the curtains into the parking lot first. When he sees that you weren't lying, he faces you with a predatory hunch in his shoulders.

He closes the distance in a few strides. He reaches for your waist with one of his long, bony hands.

You were going to drag it out, work him up a little first, but now that you’re about to get groped by the greasy fucker, you can't go through with it.

You grab his grasping arm by the wrist and twist it outward, hard. He makes a dumb noise of surprise. The rest of his arm corkscrews around the point of torsion to keep it from breaking, and his upper body soon follows. Too easy.

You let go when he's down on one knee. His hood has fallen around his shoulders, revealing a high forehead and the short, nappy hair you didn’t see before. He giggles like he thinks you’re just fucking around, but it has a nervous edge. You grip the back of his head.

“What the f- _”_ he starts. You bring his face down at the same time you bring your knee up. They slam together in the middle and there's a satisfying crunch when his nose takes some of that force. The rest of what he was going to say comes out as a “ _hurrrk.”_

Lucas sputters, nose blood cascading as he falls back onto the stained carpet. It's so god damn satisfying you let out a little growl of enthusiasm. This isn’t the first time you’ve given some deserving asshole a bloody nose. Nine times out of ten, that would end the fight.

Lucas’s entire lower face is drenched in a curtain of red, and more is running out his nostrils. His upper lip curls and blood leaks into his mouth.

“Ow _fuck,_ ” he growl-whines nasally, touching his hand to his nose. His eyes flash enough to show he’s not as stunned as he should be and bares his teeth in an wild grimace. “I guess ya didn't get enough las’ time.”

He kicks out suddenly, tangling your legs with his. You go down (fucking heels) but you crack a fist into his sternum with all your weight behind it on the way.

Lucas’s eyes pop as all the air leaves his lungs. You scuttle to sit on the edge of the bed, shaking out your sore hand.

He curls over into the fetal position on the floor with a hoarse wheeze and you regroup out of range of his lanky legs.

“This isn't gonna end like last time,” you say through your teeth, pulling off your shoes and flexing your toes.

Lucas can barely breathe or speak aloud, but he manages to laugh in stuttering gasps.

“Nah,” he says between wheezes, peering sideways at you. “ _This_ time... I ain't… lettin’ you go.”

You're stunned that he can talk after that chest punch, let alone threaten. The threat itself makes your stomach tighten like a fist.

You get ready to axe-kick him (bringing a hard heel straight down to the kidney). He grabs your supporting leg first and pulls it out from under you, too fast. You don't catch yourself in time, and you land on top of him, halfway straddling.

He doesn’t know where to hold you though, and doesn't watch out for your knee. You slam it into his stomach and he groans queasily, but still isn’t out. He may not know the countermoves, but he has serious stamina.

He rolls, taking you with him in a barrage of grappling limbs and clamping legs.

You know he’s trying to get you on your back, but you can’t let him, and both of you struggle for dominance.

“Yeah baby!” he crows before you punch him in the throat.

He flips between animal snarls and shrill cackling as you battle him across the floor in a frenzied melee until your back hits the leg of the table by the door. The lamp on it jumps, bulb flickering.

He grimaces and takes your shoulders, slamming you into the table leg. Dull pain blooms between your shoulder blades and you grunt as the table rattles.

You’re stunned long enough for him to lock your legs in his to keep from kicking him, but your fist is still free to uppercut him. The muffled crunch when his teeth bite through his tongue echoes deep in your gut.

He's spitting blood, so much blood, it’s just gushing out of his mouth in dark rivulets, and when he opens his mouth you almost can’t see his teeth in the red, darkly glistening orifice.

With ragged breaths, you grope for the lamp on the table. Your hand closes on cold porcelain. The bulb, loosened by your impact, stutters. It's heavy, but you're so flooded with adrenaline you almost don't feel it when you lift it one-handed. You rip the cord and the socket from the wall in a scatter of drywall dust and sparks, and then drop it over his head. It shatters in a burst of light and scattered porcelain.

Under all the blood and dust on his face, you can’t tell what’s what, but there’s a jagged piece of lamp sticking out of his cheek. You almost gag, and feel a sympathetic pain in your chest.

He pulls it out, revealing a few inches of sharp ceramic coated in blood.

He slurs something strangled and wet, you think a complaint about the ‘room deposit’ but you’re not sure.

He’s insane, you have the presence of mind to think, right before he punches you in the stomach.

As your back hits carpet, you try to remember how to breathe, clutching your middle. It takes all the strength in your diaphragm to refill your lungs. It doesn’t hurt yet, but you fucking know it will. You’re just glad your muscles were already so tense, otherwise, you might be worse off.

Any sympathy you might have had for him is gone.

Lucas is panting, bubbles of spit and blood foam at his mouth, crimson slobber oozes out of his open lips and he spits something out onto the floor that bounces.

It looks like a chunk of tongue and broken incisors.

He starts rocking himself to the side to get the momentum to roll over. Long arms grab a table leg and he strains vocally. He manages to get himself on his hands and knees and starts crawling over to you, panting with strained noises.

Crab-walking back, you kick at him. He fends off your blows, mostly. You land a heel on his jaw, his side, his arm.

He grabs one foot, and then the other, and yanks you toward him, burning friction into your upper thighs from the carpet.

Your skirt rides up, and in a moment of stupidity, you try to pull it back into place instead of fighting him off.

In an instant, he’s over you. Blood is draining in messy, goopy strings from his nose and mouth, and his face is swollen to the point that it’s hard to see his bone structure.

But he’s laughing again, in between slurping up his own blood and saliva, and you start to panic. How is he still going?

Sweaty red drops hit your face as he wrestles with your legs to keep you from kneeing him in the back like you did before. So many times you’d replayed that fight in your head.

You’re still struggling to breathe normally when you give up on your skirt and go for his neck. It’s so slick with his own blood and sweat, though, that you can’t get a good grip.

Lucas fights your arms down. Flashing a grotesque, red-glistening grin, he deliberately lets a glob of clotted blood fall onto your face. Your stomach heaves and you try to spit out what got into your mouth. For some reason, the taste of his blood reminds you of moldy bread and you can’t quite get it off your tongue.

You want to retch, but then you feel that abdomen punch from before and it dies in a painful cramp somewhere around the base of your esophagus.

You thrash with everything you have, but Lucas is winning _somehow_. He manages to roll you onto your stomach. Fighting back your increasingly desperate pummeling arms, he pins them together behind your back.

Lucas spreads his empty palm on the side of your face and slowly mashes your cheek into the carpet like he’s a fucking schoolyard bully.

He’s panting and dripping blood all over you. And he’s got you.

You struggle underneath him like a pinned bug on a specimen plate, snarling incomprehensible epithets. But you’re getting worn out, and he’s all wiry strength. Chest heaving, he lowers himself, laying his body on top of yours, a surprisingly effective dead weight.

“Thoulda tol’ you,” he says in a nasally voice around his bitten tongue with more clarity than he should have considering the chunk of tongue still laying on the floor by the door, “Ah’m goddamn _invinthible_.”

He lets out a loud, rattly cough right in your ear. You cringe in revulsion as he hocks a wad of something moist onto the floor behind your head.

Your blood is singing in your veins, heart beating a rapid tempo, every nerve is primed like a live wire. The injustice of it’s too great.

You can’t let him win. You _can’t_.

In a moment of desperation, you mash your butt into his groin in a downward stroke.

He wheezes and you feel the shape of something twitch through the layers of fabric between you.

It was so easy to get the reaction you wanted, but you feel disgusted with yourself for doing it. And for the urge to do it again.

He doesn’t let go of your arms, but with his weight on you, he moves his other hand down your side, over your hip, to your ass cheek. He grabs the plumpest part and squeezes with trembling relish and you feel an answering trickle of moisture in your underwear that almost surprises you. He leans down.

“Thass’ righ’ baby, jus give in...” he pants sloppily into your ear, slapping your ass cheek.

You forget your seduction strategy in a flash of rage and slam your skull back into his face in a spray of stars.

He yelps and his grip on your sweaty forearms loosens enough for you to slip out. You manage to twist away from him and kick him off you.

You clamber to your hands and knees, but you’re dizzy. White spots swirl in the margins and you sway a bit as the room tips. Headbutting always comes with a risk, but you had little options.

He’s holding his face as fresh blood seeps through his fingers.

Your heart tightens in anger. The adrenaline is wearing off, and you’re starting to feel the effects of physical strain, but you crawl forward awkwardly on one hand, clutching your sore stomach with the other.

“Why won’t you go down?” you demand through your teeth as you climb on top of him. You’re angry and tired and for some reason, you can’t just let it go.

He watches you with sharp, bloodshot eyes and you slap his hand away from his cheek, showing his ruined...

Your jaw literally falls open. There is no damage on his face under the muddy, crusty blood. None.

How is that possible? You’d hit him hard in the nose, twice, and you’re still a little dizzy from that second one. His face should be discolored, disfigured, smashed in, at least swollen. At least cut. But apart from the blood that has gotten everywhere by this point, it looks whole and normal.

He grins, showing a pink-clot-webbed row of unbroken, even teeth. Your eyes dart to the side where you can still see shards of incisor next to that moist chunk of tongue. You think you’re losing your mind, now.

You won’t believe it. You can’t.

Straddling him, you snarl and crack him in the jaw with your fist. His head snaps to the side in a spray of blood and spittle and a thin shiver goes down through your cramped stomach to your groin.

You hit his face again with a grunt. The solid contact shoots pain through your knuckles, and you grasp it with a hiss, but he’s still conscious, laughing in voiceless wheezes. But he doesn’t retaliate.

You shake your head in disbelief, you sock him with the other fist and this time he stifles a noise of pain. You felt that one up to your shoulder.

His narrow body heaves underneath you as he breathes and you feel that strength between your legs. He’s not smiling anymore, but he’s watching you with an unnerving, hollow-eyed predatory look. Panting, he tries to sop up some of the blood on his face with his ruined hoodie sleeve and leaves behind uneven patches of red-tinted skin, matte and tacky in the low lighting.

“How the fuck?” you breathe, eyeing the inflammation and bruises you’d just punched into his face. It looks like the swelling is going down before your eyes under the blood. Split skin scabs together and black and red bruises suck back into his skin like a sponge, leaving nothing but his sallow complexion behind.

He turns his head to the side and hocks a wad of blackish phlegm onto the carpet.

“Gotta try harder’n that,” he rasps, completely coherent compared to his injured lisp from before.

“You shouldn’t even be talkin’ right now, you piece of shit,” you spit.

“You got _anger_ issues _,_ sweetheart,” he giggles, his brow pinching in the middle like he can barely contain the glee. “Me too. I got that _attention deficit disorder…_ an’ also some other shit… well. Lotsa other shit.”

His blood-sticky hands unfurl at his sides, and he slowly brings them up to your bare knees.

“Mah point is… ya can’t kill me. I’ll just get,” he walks his fingers up your thighs with each word, “Right. Back. Up.”

Even if your initial reaction to his touch is to cringe, there’s something else at work, too. Seeing him all bloodied up, and the evidence of your altercation scattered around the room is exhilarating. He shouldn’t be as steady as he is, but you’d be lying if you said bashing his face in hadn’t been utterly satisfying.

But it’s still not right. And not because none of this is right in the first place, but because he’s still got that shrewd gleam in his eyes. He looks like he’s excited. Like he’s about to get exactly what he wants. Whatever lets him take a beating better than anyone you’ve ever seen doesn’t even bother you as much as his smug anticipation.

It makes the anger rise like bubbles in a simmering pot, and you feel your weary disbelief give ground to spite.

You rock back a little, taking a bit of enjoyment out of the hard lump of his dick rubbing you through your underwear, and go for his belt buckle.

Lucas’s eyes pop and a shit-eating smirk rides up the sides of his face. He runs his tongue over his top teeth.

“That’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about!” he coos. “Knew you’d come around…”

You’re sore, you’re tired, but when his stained hands start to slide up your upper leg, it elicits a mean spark in your chest.

His breaths get ragged, and you see his alert eyes bouncing between your face and what he’s doing with his hands, dragging them around to your inner thighs.

You open his belt buckle, one of those canvas weave belts that doesn’t need notches, and you start to pull it out of the loops. You’re painstakingly aware that his fingers are traveling to your crotch. With a hitched breath that isn’t manufactured, you rock back and spread your legs a little wider.

You tug on his belt and bite your lip. You didn’t get hit there, but it feels swollen. Like the blood is so near the surface of your skin everywhere, making you tingle. It’s adrenaline, but lingering and invigorating. Lucas swallows a groan when he brushes his fingers over your panty-clad pussy. You feel the fibers slide between your folds so easily and your breath catches.

“Damn girl,” he breathes, probing the damp fabric with his finger, pushing into the soft puff of skin behind it. The errant contact with your clit travels up your spine in a shiver.

He lifts his hips when you yank on his belt to make it easier for you, but also to mash his hardon between your legs. You pull his belt out the rest of the way, but he’s not even paying attention to what you’re doing. He’s more enraptured by the flush creeping up your cheeks and the way your hips keep tilting back. You can almost feel his whole cock through his pants, now.

You feed the free end of the belt through the buckle slot, making a loop. You’re present, but you’re also back in a cage in a dingy room with a dog collar locked around your neck, throat raw from screaming for help that never came.

Lucas’s breath whistles in his nostrils like he’s trying to smell you. He hooks a finger under the elastic leg hole. His bloody fingertips find your wet pussy, and you drop the loop around his neck.

He doesn’t even get a word out when you wrench back on the tail of the belt with all your strength.

His face turns red and he chokes and sputters, falling forward. You are fast to get off of and behind him, and out of his long reach. He gags, grasping for you, and you brace your foot on his back and pull harder.

“Let’s see if you need to breathe, asshole,” you grate, shifting your weight to drag him laboriously backwards toward the bathroom before he can reach behind.

His legs kick out, upsetting the TV stand and knocking it against the wall. His foot hooks onto the corner of the bed, and it goes askew a couple inches, anchoring him. But you have leverage, too, and a tug-of-war ensues.

You can see where the belt is cutting into the meat of his neck. His face is turning purple, his eyes are bloodshot, and his veins are standing out in his temples.

He loses the game of chicken and lets go of the bed with his foot. By the time you manage to get your ass through the bathroom door, he's starting to slip into behavior more human and panicky.

Suddenly, Lucas isn’t so cocky. You ease up a bit and he sucks in breath in a hoarse sob. The second he gets the idea to grapple for the belt tail, you brace your foot against the inside of the bathroom door frame and yank backwards.

He kicks the TV stand and the shitty flat screen set lands on the floor with a thud. He’s struggling but he tries to turn himself around, pivoting to get a better foothold. His neck muscles are standing out, and his face is twisted in a horrific, bloody grimace. You act fast and yank him toward you before he can get his balance.

This sends him careening forward. You get out of the way just in time for him to crash into the toilet on the back wall. It’s almost too effective, but you fight down the fear of going too far and compress it into your gut. For six months you’ve struggled to maintain some normalcy while the rage simmered. Not once did he stray far from your mind as you planned and prepared. You’d even begun having dreams about him, violent and, far more troubling, sexual.

Your hands are numb from holding the belt so tight, and your fingers are cramping up, but you heave yourself onto his back and get yourself into a balanced position so he can't flip you. There's not a lot of room for him to maneuver; you've successfully taken away his advantage with reach.

Lucas isn’t thinking rationally anymore. His hands are scrabbling at his neck, mouth working to breathe like a landed fish. His legs are too big for the tiny bathroom, and he kicks the wall convulsively, but you hold him down with his face mashed against the base of the toilet. You wonder if it’s clean.

Just when his bloodshot eyes are rolling back, you let go of the belt’s tail and give him some slack. He inhales in a ragged moan.

There’s a loud knocking on the motel room door and you freeze with Lucas desperately filling his lungs beneath you.

 _“We’ve had some noise complaints, what’re y’all doin’ in there?”_ a southern male voice demands on the other side.

The blood drains from your flushed and sweaty face so fast your head spins. More knocking. Lucas is gasping and shuddering and coughing and you’re sure he’s going to say something.

“We’re fine, thanks!” you manage to yell, though your voice is rough and shaky. “I’ll turn the TV down!”

 _“I’m comin' in,_ ” the voice answers and your heart leaps out of your throat and runs across the floor. The body beneath you sucks in a reedy breath.

“I’ll give you another grand if you fuck off!” Lucas sounds barely human, like broken pottery burned with acid and set on fire, and it’s spine-chilling.

There’s silence for a moment and you stare at him with incredulity. He’s swallowing compulsively and grimacing each time.

 _“Fine, well… just keep it down,_ ” the voice says less sure this time. You don’t hear anything else.

A grand, you think with heat rising to your sweaty face. What the fuck did he think was going to happen?

Lucas acts like he’s trying to get up. You tug back on the belt, and both his hands wrap around it behind his head automatically.

“Tap out,” you grate, seething and exhilarated. You definitely got your second wind back there, but that’s starting to wear off and the muscle fatigue is setting in everywhere.

Lucas gnashes his teeth and bucks, bracing his legs against the wall beside the door for leverage as he tries to throw you off of him, but you’re anchored with a foot jammed into the cabinet under the sink on the wall to the right. Now that you’re on top, and you’ve got yourself in the perfect position to make him submit, you don’t intend to let him go.

You hope you ruined his fucking night.

“Tap out,” you tell him, but Lucas manages to give you the middle finger, purple-faced and still holding onto the belt one-handed.

You pull yourself up into a squat and drag him with you. He has to follow or continue choking. It doesn’t even matter that he’s taller and heavier than you, his strength is starting to go without air or blood flow to his brain, a deprivation that should have killed him or knocked him out by now. But you think about his face healing, and you don’t question this.

You kick up the toilet seat, and when he realizes what you’re about to do, he forgoes his attempt to get the belt off. He braces on the side of the toilet bowl, straining against it. You give the belt some slack and lock it into place.

He gulps air desperately, forgetting all else for a second.

With one good heave, you get his head past the rim. Intoxicating power floods through you as you jam your foot on his upper back and force his face into the toilet bowl. The air he’d just sucked in seethes and bubbles in muffled vocalizations inside the bowl while the rest of him strains to get a grip. Water splashes over the side, and slickens the bloody handprints that he smeared everywhere. It only makes it harder for him to get a hold on anything.

“ _Tap out,_ you stupid dumbass,” you growl.

One skinny hand with bulging veins drums a rapid tattoo on the side of the toilet.

You relent, letting go of the leash.

Lucas’s face jerks back, taking a slosh of pinkish liquid over the rim with him. He slips backward over the front of the toilet and onto the floor. It's like the miracle of birth, but slightly less bloody, you think as he gulps painful lungfuls of air and coughs up pink toilet water.

You stare down at him, trying to flex feeling back into your stiff, sore hands as you lean against the doorframe.

If he’d been anyone else, a crushed neck and continual blood and oxygen starvation could have killed him, or at least caused serious brain damage. But anyone else would have been down for the count long before now. You feel less bad about completely owning him as you watch rational thought start to come back into his face and as the circulation returns to his brain. He has two knuckles hooked through the front of the belt to keep it off his bruised airway.

He submitted. The fighter in you is exalting. The heady rush of victory floods your body, cancelling out the soreness in your abdomen. Post-skirmish endorphins make you feel like you’re floating on a cloud, while a heavy, dense tension gathers down low.

You've never felt anything like it before, but you recognize its effects well enough. You're horny as fuck and he’s simultaneously the most pathetic and the most desirable piece of human garbage you’ve ever seen in your life.

Lucas, breathing ragged and pained, pushes himself up on shaky arms. His hoodie is drenched and sagging off of sharp shoulders. The water seems to have washed most of the blood off his angular face, though it still streaks his neck and sticks to his stubble like a rash.

He turns to look at you and you lock eyes.

You don't know how, but suddenly he's scrambling toward you, shoes squeaking on the wet tile. You lurch backwards through the doorway and land on carpet.

Lucas is over you, and the wide whites of his eyes gleam in shadowed sockets. His expression is strained and frightening like his self-control is tenuous.

At that second you think you catch a glimpse of whatever's inside of him that lets him kidnap, torture, and maim innocent people, maybe whatever gives him his unnatural abilities: a dark, writhing presence on the other side of his pupils.  You can’t explain it, but something inside of you is drawn to it.

You swallow the taste of coppery blood lingering on your tongue, and without a conscious thought, grab his face and force his mouth down on yours. You don't care about how unsanitary it is, the toilet looked clean enough, but at that moment all you want is his disgusting, sweaty body all over you.

Lucas whimpers and folds, opening his mouth so his tongue can worm behind your teeth. His hoodie, and you imagine the shirt underneath it, is cold and damp, so you focus on lifting it over his head. Lucas doesn't want to let go of your mouth long enough to get it off, so you sink your teeth into his lip. He bucks and groans into your mouth until you bite harder, separating flesh.

He yelps and jerks back, tearing skin before you let him go. His mouth’s bleeding, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just scrambles to rip his hoodie and shirt over his head in one motion. As you spit out most of the blood, you're not totally sure what’s gotten into you.

Instead of thinking about it, you shove him onto his back when he's off balance, and straddle him. The hoodie’s a damp pile on the floor and his body, all bones wrapped in wiry muscle and sinew, is a pale slash beneath you on the worn, green-patterned carpet.

You grab the tail of his belt so he doesn’t forget who’s calling the shots now, and fumble one-handed with his fly. Lucas takes over the task for you, sucking in a sharp breath like he’s afraid you’ll choke him again. Your free hand hikes up your skirt and tugs your damp underwear down one leg awkwardly. You lift off of him a couple inches to pull it over that foot while Lucas shoves his pants down his thighs, all without taking his eyes off you. His green boxer-briefs blend with the carpet until he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and shoves them out of the way.

You are as irritated that Lucas’s got a monster dick as you are anxious to work out the violent need to fuck yourself on it. You unhook your underwear from around your other ankle and ball it up.

Lucas whistles, already fucking your entire body with his eyes.

“Yew are the _hottest_ piece o’ ass I ever-”

You interrupt him by shoving the underwear into his mouth.

“You’re just a dick to me, Lucas,” you address his pale, sweat-shiny face with a jerk on his belt-leash. “And dicks don’t talk.”

Despite your warning, he says something through the wad of black cotton that sounds disgusting and you’re glad you gagged him. You run your hand between your legs to confirm with slippery fingers what you already knew, and then you slick them over his weeping cock. That ends Lucas’s verbal commentary and turns it into a muffled groan.

He holds himself at the base with a trembling hand as you get the right position above the fat red tip.

You meant to push it in fast like it was no big deal, but the sharp pain halfway down stops you. You choke back a noise, grateful that Lucas is too lost in the moment to notice you working up to being able to go all the way.

Lucas’s hands sneak over your thighs and when you sink down farther, he whines a cotton-stuffed plea and squeezes your trembling legs.

It takes you a couple of tries, but you manage to get it in, enjoying how Lucas’s ribcage swells and shudders as he tries to hold still.

There’s a perfect moment when he’s not Lucas Baker. He’s just some guy with a gorgeous cock stretching you out and hitting all the right places. As you begin to roll your hips, you follow the rising wave of hard bliss with a soft moan.

He squints like he’s going to cry when he draws his hands up to your hips and starts to rock them for you. His thumbs dig into the front and you feel like your pelvis is in a vise. As you let him guide the pace, too sore in your abs right now to put more effort into it, you realize that what he’s doing feels good. He manages to find an angle that hits a tender nerve cluster inside that makes you clench. His hips jump beneath you, jamming his dick in hard and you both grunt at the same time.

You lean forward, panting and pulling his belt tail up at the same time. Lucas’s mouth works around your cotton panties.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” you say with a shaky mixture of rage and need. Your other hand slips down between your legs and you start to rub your clit.

Lucas says something that sounds like ‘what?’

You jerk the belt leash and squeeze your pelvic floor around his girth, and the discomfort makes him wince. You’ve been doing your kegels, and he can tell.

“Tell me you’re sorry for being such a piece of shit,” you say with an edge of urgency that you’ve been trying to keep down. Your index and middle finger roll over your swollen nub.

‘ _I’mph thowweh,’_ he whines. You stop masturbating and slap him with that hand. It produces a satisfying pop and inspires a thrill of malicious enjoyment. You rock your hips once to moisten things up down there, and the desperation in Lucas’s groan, and the rising color in the cheek you just slapped gets your heart racing harder.

“Tell me you’re sorry for being such a piece of shit,” you repeat. You lick your finger and start to toy with your clit again, biting your lower lip.

 _‘I’mphh fhawweh,”_ he moans, eyes pinching. You can almost see a bit of moisture gathering at the outer corner of his eye. _‘I’mmph ah pee-oh thih.’_

It’s ridiculous, but the ball of hot anger inside of you starts to recede, leaving a hollow ache in its place. As if he wouldn’t say anything to fuck you right now. It might be shallow, but it’s what you needed to hear.

“You are,” you say with an intensity born of sincerity. “You’re a piece of shit, Lucas Baker. Now fuck me.”

Lucas seizes your hips hard and with a desperate pinch between his brows, starts to fuck up into you. You’re jolted and jarred, but you grit your teeth and hold onto his leash, and never once tear your eyes away from his.

Lucas braces a foot against the door and starts humping so vigorously that his narrow ass lifts off the floor. You bounce on him like a see-saw, knees bumping the carpet. You pant through the blunt impact on your insides as his cockhead strikes against your buzzing nerve endings.

It hurts so fucking good, for once you can’t feel the spite that’s been simmering for months.

Soon he’s hyperventilating through his nostrils, eyes burning with fervor, huffing and groaning around your panty gag. Sweat beads on his brow, and drips a zig-zag journey between your heaving breasts.

You’re losing focus, but Lucas is only getting more into it. His pupils are blasted wide in the middle of icy blue corneas, upper lip peeled back as his jaw works, grinding his teeth into the fabric stuffed between them.

You spit on your hand and swirl it around your clit and his pistoning cock to alleviate the friction. The heat he’s generating is settling into your spine and lower abdomen and only growing warmer. A wash of tingling heat leaks down the inside of your burning thigh muscles and swells into your gut.

“Fuck,” you grunt as your tense spine bows forward. “Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

You brace on his sharp shoulder as Lucas’s muffled vocalizations grow increasingly guttural, a punctuation at the end of every thrust that you can feel vibrating into your hand. His balls bob between your ass cheeks, and his pelvis hits your inner thighs with the vulgar slap of sweaty skin on skin. It echoes sharply in the surrounding rooms, along with your ragged breaths. His thumbs bruise your hips and you jerk the leash to the side, watching his face strain as you cut off his air.

He goes harder until the sensations becomes a blur, a rising aura of heat and pressure and anticipation. You are boneless on top of him, moaning and powerless against his frenzied pace. You fall forward, head buried next to his until you feel his sweat smear on your cheeks and mouth.

Desperately, you find your clit and start to grind it with your sweaty hand, listening to Lucas’s heartbeat grow more pronounced with every airless second.

Every muscle from your midsection down tenses at once and you squeeze his cock inside of you. You come, flooded with a hard, sharp release that tremors down your legs.

His belt slips through your fingers. Lucas chokes for oxygen at the same time his dick surges. You have the presence of mind to feebly dig the panties out of his mouth as you feel his dick throb in receding pulses. He sucks in a sobbing breath.

His feet slip and his legs collapse under you and he lays there panting with you on top of him.

Lucas isn’t gagged anymore, but it seems like for once, he doesn’t have anything to say.

Your thighs are trembling, you realize with a dull twang of embarrassment, but when you push yourself up, you see moisture leaking from the corner of his slitted eyes. He’s grinning.

He looks at you, then, and you feel the ghost of a hand on your damp lower back. It’s unexpectedly tender.

Your phone rings at that second, making you jump, and the hand drops away.

Jill, you realize.

“Shit. Shit shit shit.”

You pull yourself off of him and scramble on wobbly legs, stepping carefully around shattered porcelain and the fallen TV, toward the chair where you flung your coat. As you dig it out of your pocket, you pinch your thighs together to stem the flow of leaking jizz.

“ _Oh thank God, you’re alive,_ ” Jill breathes in a sigh of relief on the other end after you answer. “ _Do we need to hide a body?”_

“No,” you say, peering back over your shoulder to look at Lucas. He’s pushed himself up into a sitting position, but his pants are still bunched around his thighs. You follow the line of his spine to his narrow ass. “He’s still alive. But I made him sorry he ever fucked with me.”

 _“Good, thought I might have to call uncle Leon,”_ Jill says with an enthusiastic growl. _“I knew you’d get ‘im. You think he’ll call the cops?_ ”

You remember his paranoia and the fact that he had to make sure you weren’t bringing the police. Lucas wouldn’t want them involved any more than you do.

“No, he won’t call the cops,” you say as he peers over his shoulder to meet your gaze. He still hasn’t taken the belt from around his neck. You turn away to curl over the phone. “And neither will we, right?”

Jill sighs.

“Right?”

“ _Fine. But if he kidnaps someone else, that’s on you._ ”

You can’t say anything back to that.

“I’ll call you later,” you say, tugging your skirt back into place. You hang up the phone and look at it for a moment.

“I ain’t had my head shoved in a toilet since grade school,” Lucas says as his shirtless body crouches and inspects the TV on the floor. You edge past him into the bathroom. Throwing a few towels on the floor to soak up the water, you turn on the sink. “People’d pay beaucoup bucks fer the privilege if it was you doin it.”

Lucas picks up the screen and sets it on the table as you stare. You wonder if he’s forgotten about the belt, or if he just doesn’t care.

“You coul’ have a real business opportunity here.”

“Get me some ice,” you say with a hard edge. You’d like to hit him again if it weren’t for your bruised knuckles. You think that next time you should wrap them. The thought occurs to you before you realize that would actually require there to be a next time.

Lucas plugs in the TV and peers up at you with a grin.

“Yes’m,” he says with a wink, and leaves the room, bare upper body shining with sweat, with the empty bucket in hand. You hold your hand under the running water with a hiss. The knuckles are raw, and the joints ache. In fact, you’re sore all over, but not as sore as you feel like you should be.

You wash your face and pat it dry with a clean towel. You wonder why you’re still there. Why you haven’t called the cops, or the front desk. Why you’re waiting for him to return.

You realize it’s because you’re not done with him yet. The sex was cathartic, but you aren’t satisfied by a long shot. There’s something else you need from him, maybe something that isn’t so simple.

“I didn’t come here to fuck you,” you say when he closes the door behind him, ice bucket in hand.

“I figured,” he says with a shrug that’s neither apologetic, nor ironic. “You wanted to get me back, right? Don’t blame ya.”

“You killed people,” you say, though the words are drained of the fire that motivated you to seek him out in the first place.

Lucas sets the ice bucket on the table next to the TV and bends down to pick up the remote off the floor.

“ _Technically_ , they offed themselves,” he says, raising his brows knowingly as he tries the remote. The TV comes on, muted, and Lucas changes it to a local news channel.

You shake your head, not accepting it. Absently, you wring a towel in your hands, feeling the need to strangle something.

“You abducted me,” you say.

“It weren’t personal or nothin’,” he says, regarding you with a shrug. “You were just in the right place at the right time.”

“You were gonna kill me.”

Lucas sighs and runs his hand back over his head, mussing the short, nappy hair.

“C’mon now, I thought we was pas’ this. Ah saved ya in the end, din’t I? That’s gotta count fer somethin’. I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

Frustration makes you bang your fist on the sink and are more than a little gratified to see him jump.

“It’s not good enough. How can you get away with it? ”

Lucas raises his hands slowly, at a loss.

“Look, I don’ know whut you think I am, or what ya thought ya’d get outta this,” he says, gesturing between you, “but you shoul’ know, there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”

You scoff and he shakes his head, fixing you with an unblinking stare. “I mean, there’s somethin’ _really_ wrong. With me, with my whole family. It ain’t ever been the same since that storm a couple years back.”

“So, what, this is normal for you?” you say, turning to face him with a rising edge in your voice. It’s made all the worse for the fact that you feel something uncomfortably close to shame. “You just… snatch people up, force ‘em to eat rotten meat, keep ‘em in dog cages, set traps for ‘em…” Lucas winces in an exaggerated expression of sheepishness as you continue. “And then you let ‘em go and prey on their traumas-”

“Wait justa minute,” Lucas interrupts, moving a step forward. You aren’t afraid of him, just desperate for a meaning to or understanding of what happened to you, and what you’re doing there now.

“Firs’ of all, I ain’t just a fuckin’ psycho. There is a reason I do all that shit.” He pauses and thinks for a second, bristly mouth cracking into a smirk. “Well... _most_ of it. Point is, you just got caught up in it, princess. Weren’t yer fault, weren’t my fault. But yer alive ain’tcha? Alive an’ kickin’ if I do say so muhself.”

“That’s not-” you sputter.

“Now hold on, I ain’t finished,” Lucas says, holding up a finger and bending down to pick up his wet hoodie and shirt. “Second of all, all this?” he gestures at the room, lightly kicking the bed back into place. “I ain’t never done this before.”

“You’re full of shit,” you snap. He was way too smooth, he’d been way too careful. He’d been way too fucking _good_. “There’s no way.”

“Hey, _you_ called _me_ , remember?” he says going over and sitting on the bed as he pulls on first his shirt, and then his hoodie. “ _You_ came here on yer own. I didn’t expect to hear from you, an’ I sure as fuck didn’t think you’d actually show up. It ain’t my fault you got daddy issues or whatever flavor of crazy you are.”

“You knew who I was,” you say, losing steam. “You were ready, like you’ve done this before. Fucked someone you ‘let go’.”

Lucas chuckles and reclines on the bed with and arm behind his head.

“Hell no I ain’t done this before. Do you see what I’m workin’ with here?” he gestures to himself. “‘Sides, I never met someone even half as crazy as you are. Shit, I _was_ ready. Call me sentimental, but I been plannin’ this fer months, hopin’ you’d call. Waitin’ by my phone like a sick puppy... Kept my burner longer’n I shoulda just for the chance to get me a piece of that.” He bites his lip and looks over you brazenly. Your face flushes hot with anger but immediately gives way to embarrassment. You’d played right into his fucking plan, even if that hadn’t been your intention. “Didn’t think you’d beat the everlovin’ shit outta me, though. Guess that one’s on me.” He giggles, stroking his chin. “I even tried to go easy on you at first, maybe letcha win… gotta say, it’s way better losin’ fer real.”

You pick your crumpled underwear off the floor. One of your favorite pairs, but the thought of pulling them on now is extremely unappealing. You really need a shower. And a long, hot soak in some epsom salts. And some cardio to blank out your mind, but later when you don’t feel so worn out.

“So ah,” Lucas starts, crossing his legs on top of the bed. “You uh got daddy issues or what? Cuz I’m more’n happy to letcha work ‘em out on me.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you growl, throwing the damp panties at his face. He sniggers and catches them.  

“Yeah. Were ya expectin’ someone else?” he leers.

You sigh, annoyed because he’s right. You walk over to the ice bucket and push your fists in there with a soft hiss and the crunch of shifting ice. The cold stings on the cuts, but feels good on your joints. Next time you look at him, you don’t see your underwear.

“I was uhh… serious, by the way,” he says in an offhand way.

“About what?” you ask, holding your hands in there until the cold starts to burn.

“I’ll letcha fuck me up anytime you want,” he says with a husky undertone. He absently scratches his neck under the belt. “I can take it, and ain’t gonna judge ya. I mean, it’s perfect if ya think about it… you gotta primo punchin’ bag right here. The real thing. Yer very own _physical therapy._ ”

“I’d have to be insane to take you up on that,” you say, even as the possibilities flicker through your mind like a morbid vacation slideshow. You pull your hands out and take a look. They’re red, and bruises are already showing up. Next time, hand wraps, you think with guilty resignation.

“I’m not gonna snatch you up again, I swear. I like it much better knowin’ yer out here… breakin’ balls. Like a fuckin’... warrior princess.” Lucas rumbles and strokes the tail of the belt.

You don’t say anything, just grab your coat off the chair. You’re exhausted emotionally and physically to the point that the world has taken on a fuzzy sort of overlay. Like nothing is real inside this room.

“Where you goin’?” Lucas says, sitting up when you start to pull on your jacket. “I got the room for the whole night.”

You chew on your bottom lip and pull out your phone, dial three numbers. Lucas pushes himself off the bed and stands there with a question on the tip of his tongue. You hold the phone up to your ear and look at him.

“Don’t call me, I’m getting a new phone after this,” you tell him just before the emergency line picks up.

“Hi, I’d like to register a noise complaint,” you tell the voice on the other line. “Pretty sure I heard gunshots.”

You savor Lucas’s dawning realization, and his inability to move as you give the address of the hotel.

“Bye Lucas,” you say, opening the hotel room door. You catch a glimpse of the wicked grin on his face as he pulls his hood up, then you shut the door behind you.

\------

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to FancyLadySnackCakes for basically beta-ing this fic for me!
> 
> Tip your writer (me!) I accept payment in the form of kudos and comments ;D who knows, maybe a comment will result in a fic if my interest is tickled


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